JOY KIERSEY.
That had been the first of many hours of practice on the tennis courts.
Running races with Shags and rowing had been the only two outdoor sports
Muriel had known. For that reason, perhaps, she thoroughly enjoyed
tennis, and how her friends did enjoy watching her.
Every afternoon from four to five o'clock they had the court to
themselves, that being the hour when Marianne Carnot was practicing her
vocal lessons on the other side of the school. These three friends did
not wish Marianne to even suspect that Muriel was being drilled. Not that
they had any hope of winning the game, which was but a fortnight away. In
fact, it would be unwise to permit so new a player as Muriel to even take
part, they decided. Joy Kiersey, who usually played with Catherine
Lambert, had been ill, and was not yet strong enough to practice,
although she assured the girls that she would not fail them on the day of
the tournament.
"We have a strong team," Faith told Muriel one noon at lunch, "when Joy
is with us, but not so strong when she isn't."
"I haven't met Joy Kiersey as yet, have I?" Rilla said this slowly,
thoughtfully, and hence more correctly.
Faith was pleased, but made no comment. "No," she replied. "Joy did not
return at the beginning of the term, and although she has been in High
Cliffs for a week now, she remains in her room most of the time. We
thought that we would call upon her this afternoon during the free
period, and I planned asking you to accompany us."
Muriel shook her head. "Don't," she said. Then twinkles appeared in her
clear hazel eyes. "I dunno how to make a call. We haven't had that yet in
politeness."
Faith, however, did not smile. "This afternoon, dear, you follow me and
do just what I do and then, at least, you will be as correct a guest as I
am."
"Miss Gordon said that we might go," Gladys leaned forward to remark,
"and Joy is eager to have a real visit with us."
"We haven't had an opportunity since she came to confer about the game."
This from Catherine.
"Maybe she'd ruther I didn't come."
Faith looked reproachfully at her friend, then said softly that no one
else might hear: "Rilla, you are forgetting our new rule. Think a
sentence before you say it."
Muriel flashed a bright smile at the speaker, thought a moment, then
repeated: "Perhaps your friend, Joy Kiersey, would rather that I did not
come."
"Not so, Rilla." Faith was glad to be able to add truly: "Joy asked
especially about you. She was watching us yesterday as we returned from
the court and she inquired who you were, and what do you suppose she
said?"
"I can't guess. Something dreadful, like's not--I mean--I suppose."
"Not a bit of it! Joy asked who the girl was who carried herself as
though she were a princess."
Muriel looked blank. "Who was she talking about? If 'twas me, then she
was just makin' fun."
"No, dear. Joy wouldn't do that. You don't realize it, of course, but
there are times when you carry yourself, shall I say proudly? Or----"
Faith hesitated, groping for a word, then laughingly confessed, "I don't
know just how to express it."
"As though she had a family tree like Adelaine Stuart," Gladys put in.
Muriel laughed; then said earnestly: "I come from a long line of good,
honest New England seafaring folk and I'm proud of it. My grand-dad stood
erect, the way I suppose you mean that I do. Summer folk often spoke of
it. I remember one man visitin' the light said grand-dad was like a
Viking. Queer how I remembered that word all this time. I suppose because
I wondered what it meant."
"Oh, I know all about Vikings," Gladys boasted. "Listen and you shall
hear. Between the eighth and eleventh centuries the coasts of the British
Isles were visited by the Norsemen, called Vikings, or sea-rovers, who
contributed much to the romantic history of medieval Europe."
"My! What a lot we know," Catherine Lambert teased as she beamed across
the table, and Gladys merrily retorted: "Well, why shouldn't I know it
today, since I only learned it yesterday. But don't ask me anything about
it next week."
Then, as the signal was given, the girls arose and left the dining hall.
Little did Muriel guess that these dear friends had planned the call upon
Joy that she might have an actual experience that would fit her for the
dreaded class in politeness.
The afternoon tea was a delightful affair. Joy, who seemed to Muriel to
be the embodiment of loveliness, welcomed them to her sunny,
flower-filled room with a graciousness which at once won the heart of the
island girl.
"Miss Joy Kiersey, may I present my friend Miss Muriel Storm?" was the
form of introduction chosen.
"I am indeed glad to make the acquaintance of so dear a friend of our
Faith," was the sincere response as Joy extended her hand and clasped
that of the new member of their little clan. "Now, everybody find a place
to curl up somewhere and let's chat for half an hour while the kettle
boils. Dear Miss Gordon granted a special dispensation today and yonder
on the tea table is seen the flame of my alcohol lamp that will soon
persuade the tiny teakettle to start its song."
"Oh, what an adorable teakettle that is! I love copper things, don't you,
Muriel?" Gladys exclaimed, forgetting for the moment that the island girl
might not be familiar with things antique. Faith replied for her friend,
then added: "Joy's latest hobby, it is quite evident, is collecting
baskets. You have a dozen new ones, I do believe."
Their hostess nodded, and pointing to a large, round and nearly flat
basket lying near the hearth: "I found that in Nevada last summer when we
were visiting Lake Tahoe. It was made by the Washoe Indians and I think
that I prize it most of all, and yet that Washoe water bottle on the
mantel is interesting as a curiosity."
After the bottle-shaped basket had been admired Gladys asked: "Did you
find people different in the West?"
"I like the real Westerner," Joy replied, "but there was one thing that
was always like a discord to me, and that was the manner of introduction
used by many of them. They say, 'Meet my friend.' It is so harsh and so
abrupt. If they would say, 'I would like you to meet my friend,' it would
seem more gracious."
Muriel, listening, resolved that she would never use that crude form of
introduction.
"Hark!" Catherine Lambert said softly. "I hear a voice calling to us."
Joy uncurled from the big chair which the girls had insisted that she
occupy. "Oh, the little copper teakettle is singing." Then to Faith,
"Will you pour today, Miss Morley?"
No one looked at Muriel, and as she did in all things as her friends did,
the serving of tea and wafers passed without a mishap.
When the bell in the corridor announced the hour of five o'clock Faith
rose. "Time to depart," she said. Then to their hostess, "Joy, I am so
glad that you are better. We have had a delightful time at your tea party
and shall hope to see you soon in Pickle Pantry."
This was the name that Faith jokingly gave the room that she shared with
Gladys, for that maiden being extremely fond of sweet pickles, always had
a bottle of them stowed away in most unexpected places.
"Girls," Joy said remorsefully, "we haven't made a single plan for the
game. However, I'll be at the court tomorrow at four."
As Faith and Muriel ascended the stairs toward the cupola room, whither
they were going for a half-hour review of spelling, the former asked:
"Isn't Joy a dear?"
"I love her," Muriel said. Then she asked: "Are you sure she is real?"
Faith turned with puzzled eyes. "Real? Do you mean sincere?"
The island girl shook her head. "No, indeed, I know she is that! I mean
that she looks like the gold and white fairy folk Uncle Barney used to
tell about--and they always disappeared."
Faith smiled. "Joy is our Dresden China girl, and, oh, Muriel, how I do
hope she will grow strong. Her mother took her West last year believing
the invigorating air of the Rockies would help her; but even now she
hasn't the strength that we who love her desire. The world has need of
girls like our Joy," she concluded.
Joy Kiersey, to the delight of her friends, appeared at the court next
afternoon. Her soft, golden hair was like an aureole of sunshine about
her head, for when she began to play she tossed her pale blue tam on a
bench, where earlier she had flung her sweater-coat of the same color.
Joy and Catherine played singles for a while, the two being the experts
of the team. Faith, Gladys and Muriel sat nearby watching with admiring
eyes.
Time after time Joy was able to smash a ball over the net in such a
manner that it fell dead before Catherine could return it.
"That's our only hope," Faith confided to Muriel, "that play of Joy's!
It's a trick that her Harvard brother taught her and, watch as closely as
we may, we cannot acquire it. Her brother, it seems, made Joy promise
that she would not teach it to the other girls unless it might be in an
emergency of some kind."
"If Marianne Carnot and Adelaine Stuart are to play against Joy and
Catherine," Muriel said, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm, "they will
have to be wonderful players to win."
"You would think so," Gladys chimed in, "but you have never seen Marianne
run. She seems to be everywhere at once. It doesn't matter on what part
of the court we place a ball, there that French girl is, ready to return
it, often with a volley, and her aim is true. However, Joy does excel in
the smash stroke, and so, if she is strong enough to play, we may win."
Soon Joy declared that she wanted to rest and watch while the others
played.
Faith buttoned the girl who had been ill into her blue sweater-coat and
then wrapped a soft golden scarf about her, although Joy declared that
she did not need it. "You're warm now," Faith told her, "but there's a
decided nip in the air today, and we must be careful of our champion."
At first Muriel was self-conscious, for she knew that Joy's sweet blue
eyes were watching her, not critically but with interest.
Suddenly, however, her attention was attracted by the falling of the ball
on the extreme opposite side of the court. Of course Catherine would run
for it, Muriel thought, but when she saw that maiden slip, Muriel ran as
though her feet were shod with the wings of the wind. Over the net the
ball went and Catherine was ready to volley it back when Gladys returned
it.
Joy wanted to shout her delight. How she longed to sing out: "Girls,
Marianne may be able to run, but Muriel flies!" But, instead she kept
very quiet. She saw that the island girl was beginning to forget herself,
and she did not wish to say anything that would cause her
self-consciousness to return.
Soon Joy realized that she had over-estimated her own strength, for a
sense of weariness was creeping over her. She rose, meaning to tell the
girls that she had better go to her room, but she fell back on the bench,
her face pale. Joy had fainted. Faith, rebuking herself for having
permitted the frail girl to play at all, was quickly at her side, as were
the others.
Joy soon opened her eyes and found her head resting on Faith's shoulder.
"I'm sorry if I frightened you," she said. Then with a sigh she
concluded: "I guess I'll have to give up trying to play in the
tournament."
"Never mind, Joy dear. We would far rather have you regain your strength
slowly than win all of the tennis honors that could come to us," Faith
assured her.
With the assistance of loving arms, Joy returned to the school and was
soon made comfortable in her padded blue silk kimono. Muriel and Gladys
brought wood and made a fire on the hearth, while Catherine went
kitchenward to fill the copper teakettle with boiling water.
The next day Joy felt as well as she had before, but the girls were
unanimous in declaring that she must not play tennis again until spring.
Then it was that Joy made a resolution.